“Perfect.” He doesn’t say the word like it’s a compliment or an opinion. He states it like a fact.
My cheeks warm and not from embarrassment.
Sylvie clears her throat. “We’ll rush a finished gown by tomorrow evening.”
“Tonight,” Vlad corrects. “Courier it to the penthouse. Any overtime fees, add them.”
Her nod is practically a curtsy.
When the staff slips out for receipts, Vlad draws me into a quiet alcove lined with fabric bolts. The hush feels stolen. I exhale, hand brushing the unfinished silk at my hip.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “But you didn’t have to rescue me.”
He lifts a brow. “I didn’t rescue you. I reminded them of what was already obvious.”
A laugh escapes. “Obvious?”
Lust and admiration flash in his eyes, his gaze strolling over me like fingertips. “Painfully obvious. Where do I even begin with how perfect your body is? First, the freckles on your shoulders are like tiny constellations I trace when you’re asleep, mapping the sky of your skin.”
Heat blooms all the way to my ears.
“Second, those thighs—thick, delicious—the way your calves flex every time you pivot to hand me a file. Impossible not to stare.”
“You pay dangerously close attention, Mr. Angeloff.”
“Then there’s that curve where your waist drifts into your hips…” he draws it in the air, the motion slow and deliberate. “Perfect to grab when I’m taking you from behind.”
I pull in a shaky breath. His eyes drop to my mouth.
“And these lips,” he adds, thumb hovering near them but not touching. “Soft as silk, always parted when you’re concentrating. And when you’re coming.”
His gaze drifts lower, lingering where fabric stretches over my breasts. “And here—so perfect I forget how to think.” He places his hand just below my right breast, moving it up slowly.
The lights hum overhead, blood rushing in my ears.
“You’re impossible,” I whisper, cheeks burning.
“Impossibly captivated,” he corrects, tracing a fingertip along the underside of my breast. My nipple hardens at his touch. “Tell me,kotenok,do we continue this conversation here? Or back at home?”
I somehow find my voice. “Home,” I breathe. “Definitely home.”
His smile curves, dark and satisfied. “Then I’ll clear my schedule.”
We go back to the shop floor, my cheeks flushed, knees unsteady.
Receipts appear on a silver tray. Vlad signs without looking, but I glimpse enough zeroes to make me dizzy. Our champagne is topped off and we’re escorted to the front doors.
Sylvie, now the picture of politeness, murmurs, “Have a lovely evening, Ms. Winslow.”
I manage not to smirk. Vlad’s hand rests low on my back as the doors close.
Walking to the car, I catch my reflection in the dark glass. If Vlad can erase cruel whispers with a single sentence, maybe I can silence my own doubts.
At least long enough to glide across a Christmas-lit dance floor and show Aleksander Volkov exactly who isn’t afraid anymore.
CHAPTER 20
VLAD
